The bonds of time
by QuestionMarkHeart
Summary: AU Reincarnation fic. Merlin is forced to relive his destiny over and over in different lives. He is made to lose the people he loves most over and over again, suffering the same heartache. Until something changes, until destiny rewrites itself. But then, what is he willing to risk to finally have the one he's loved for years? Eventual Merthur :)
1. Prologue

**Warning:** There will be some slashy slash later on in the story and a major age gap. If you're uncomfortable with that, best don't read.

**A/N:** I don't own Merlin but if there is any way I can, please let me know ;)

**Prologue**

He watched a hand reach up through the water and grab Excalibur. The sickening tight grip on his heart loosened a fraction and he took the dragon's words to heart. Arthur would rise again. And he would be there when he did.

He gave his king a burial fit for a knight of Camelot. He watched the boat drift solitary on the still water and tried to swallow past the lump that formed in his throat.

His king, his best friend, his other half; gone.

Merlin stood at the bank of the lake until he could no longer see the boat, until there was no trace of the once and future king. He felt a kind of heaviness take over. It seemed as if years of exhaustion came crashing down, the reality of what happened too much to carry on his shoulders alone.

He thought of Gwen, waiting for a man that would never come home. He thought of the knights that had fallen, the friends he had lost.

He thought of Morgana, hatred burning in her eyes even at her last breath. All the pain, betrayal and suffering. All that could have been avoided if he had maybe tried harder. Merlin looked down at his hands and found dry blood beneath his nails. He did not know if was Morgana's or Arthurs but the nausea took over either way.

His knees buckled and he curled in on himself.

He had never quite understood the sentiment of a broken heart. The concept seemed bizarre and unrealistic. But he held his hand to his chest and he swore there was less there. As if Arthur's death had shattered what made him human; ripped his spirit away.

The wet ground was cold against his cheek as he took a shuddering breath. He had never felt so tired before. Just a moment, he told himself. He would sleep for a just a moment and then he would get up. Yes, he would get up and carry on.

Carry on like his heart hadn't just drifted away on a wooden boat.

Just a moment, sleep for just a moment.


	2. Chapter 1

**A/N: **Please forgive the historic references that are not 100% correct…artistic license

Reviews make the writing go quicker

**Chapter 1**

The first life was the hardest.

Merlin did not remember himself at first. His name was Nicholas, his mother's name was Katerina and they lived in Greece 340 BC. The first few years of his life were confusing. His mother often found him sitting alone, silently staring unseeingly into the distance.

He often succumbed to fevers and would lie shivering for hours on end, eating nothing and refusing to be touched. Katrina sat by his side, staring at her strange and beautiful son, marvelling at his pale skin and blue eyes, so unlike her own.

It was the dreams that brought the boy so much pain. His little body, his little mind, could not handle the random and disjointed images of a life he could no longer remember. He would wake up crying; body racked with grief and yet not understand why.

Women in their community, his mother's friends, would come and pray for him convinced he had angered the gods in a past life. He started to believe them, started to believe that he had done something to deserve the cold empty feeling in his little heart that left him breathless and wanting.

It took years before the disjointed images that plagued him at night begun to make sense, before he remembered names and places and who he was.

He was sitting on a straw mat his mother had made, watching the other children his age playing in the street. They had sticks and pretended to be warriors, chasing each other up and down the narrow space between their homes. He watched them play and he thought of another world, another life, where he had sat and watched a different group of boys. He remembered the sound their swords had made clashing against each other. He remembered Elyan's laughter when he bettered Sir Leon. He remembered Percival's strength against a stealthy Gwaine, teeth white in a wide grin.

He remembered the way the sun hit the back of his neck despite the snug neckerchief. He remembered the smell of the freshly cut grass and how the cloth in his hand felt as he used it to polish a sword.

_His_ sword.

When he remembered Arthur for the first time, he crumbled to the floor and lay there sobbing until someone called for his mother. Katrina held her sobbing son, patting his back, begging him to breathe. He looked up at his mother and did not see the woman he was used to but someone else altogether; someone with skin as pale as his and straighter darker hair.

_Hunith_, he whispered and fell asleep against her.

It took months for Nicholas…for Merlin to speak about what he saw. It took years before he believed what he said. He was twelve when the dreams found him in his waking life, when he saw the faces that plagued him at night reflected in faces of the people he saw every day.

He learnt not to speak of it with anyone but his mother. He knew no one would understand. No one would believe that he had once been a great sorcerer; he had once been a friend to the greatest king to ever live.

He found Will when he was thirteen and wondering the outskirts of his village like he was prone to do. He almost ran into the arms of the shorter, skinner boy. He wanted to cry, wanted to tell him that he had missed him. Instead he offered him a drink of water from his canister and they spent the afternoon exploring and falling effortlessly into an easy friendship.

He spent every day looking after that. He needed to find him. He needed to find his king, his friend.

He met Gaius at a market a few months later. He was selling herbs and remedies and looked nothing like the old man he had grown fond of in his past life. He was younger, skin tanned and hair barely greyed but the eyes where the same.

He begged the older man to give him an apprenticeship, begged him to teach him and give him work. He tried not to come on too strong but failed. It did not matter in the end because this Gaius was just as kind as the last.

It seemed his life followed the same path as his last. He sometimes thought of his second life as a shadow of his first, as if he was simply following the footsteps of his former self.

He was not surprised when his magic found him again. He stood in front of a bank of water that he and conjured up when he felt desperately thirsty. He looked into the water and saw his golden yes staring back at him.

"This is what I was, this is what I am, this is what I will always be," he whispered.

He found Arthur when he was fifteen. He had heard stories of a great worrier; Alexander the Great. No child had escaped childhood without pretending to be the great commander with his friends, battling imaginary enemies with wooden swords and spears.

Gaius had been called into his service and Merlin had followed him, as he had before. When he saw him for the first time, he did not see the dark hair, did not see the tanned skin or older features. He saw his Arthur, he saw gold hair and aquamarine eyes.

His breath left his body, he felt his knees weaken. There he was, after all this time. There he was looking every bit the warrior and leader he knew him to be. A king, with all his loyal subjects surrounding him.

They spoke of Parysatis II of Persia, the beauty that owned the King's heart, but he thought of sweet Gwen with the soft locks and the sweet smile. They spoke of the mighty warriors by his side, he saw the Knights of the Round Table, his friends.

It was hard to be on the outside, to be seen as nothing but a servant. Despite the similarities between his old life and the new, not all was the same. He was not Arthur's confidant, he was not allowed into the folds of the inner circle. He stood always on the outskirts, supplying a helping hand when he saw fit.

When he was eighteen he thought maybe he had been wrong, he thought maybe his second life was not a mirror of the first, that there was no need to fear the loss of his king a second time.

But then he met Freya.

He had been visiting his mother after spending months by Gaius's side and in the service of the King. He had already lost Will to a plague and he could hardly bare to visit their childhood home without the loss leaving him unable to move, let alone breathe.

He was collecting firewood when he saw the remnants of a carriage littered across the ground. A wheel there splintered wood over there.

He heard her before he saw her, her cries soft and pained.

He dropped the wood he had been carrying and ran to the sound, knowing what he would find before he round the corner. It was not the first time he had seen a slave chained. It was a common feature, something he saw and swallowed and accepted almost daily.

But when he looked into the eyes of the young woman yanking fiercely at her chains, all reason left him. He did not see the still bodies of the men that had been transporting her, he only saw her. His Freya, needing his help again.

He approached her much like a man approached a wounded animal. He saw scratches on her dark skin, long and red and angry. He felt fear and anger flood him so suddenly he was panting with it. Freya looked up at him, eyes wide and scared. He knew she would not remember him, did not try to get her to see him just then.

He produced a hunting knife and edged around her slowly. He worked at her locks without breaking her gaze.

"I won't hurt you, I promise," he whispered.

She did not understand his language but could see the kindness in eyes. She allowed him to free her shackled legs and pour water over her wounded ankles. Merlin offered his hand and she accepted it without hesitation, as if something inside her already knew to trust him.

He took her home and treated her wounds as best he could. His heart was heavy and he tried his best not to cry. Was she doomed to be cursed in all her lives?

He fed her and gave her clothes, entertained her when she grew wary of him and her surroundings. When she leant in and placed a chaste kiss on his lips, he felt the rightness of it. As if he had been waiting all his life to feel that warmth.

He vowed not to make the same mistakes as before. He was to leave with her that very night, no waiting around for the worst to happen. He spent all of the next day gathering supplies and saying goodbye to his loved ones and friends without actually saying the words. He left money by his mother's bed, hoping she would understand with time.

He was coming home from the baker's, where he'd secured a few loaves of bread, when he heard the commotion. He found people gathered in a circle around a scene near his home. He held his breath, _not again_, he thought.

He won't recall dropping the bread and falling to his knees when he thinks about it later. He won't remember crawling to her still form, blood covering his hands and knees.

Later his mother will explain what happened while washing the dry blood off her son's hands. She will speak softly as if afraid to scare him off. He will find out that she was a savage girl found wandering alone. They caged her, planning to make a profit by trading her. They did not anticipate how wild and untamed she was. They say she reacted like an animal when officials came looking for her. She bit and scratched and almost took one man's eye out.

They say the only thing they could do was slit her throat right there.

Like an animal.

Merlin becomes resigned to his fate. He spends each day knowing and fearing what is to happen, who he is to lose. He is in the field harvesting the season's crop when he hears the news. Alexander the Great, undefeated in battle and considered the greatest commander Greece had known, had died in the palace of Nebuchadnezzar at the age of 32.

He had failed him again.

He had no doubt there was foul play at hand, even before the people began to speculate. If he was allowed within the king's inner circle, maybe he would have been able to warn him of Morgana, of Mordred, whoever they would be to him. Maybe he could have…but really he knows there was nothing he could do. Arthur had risen when his people needed a leader. Now he was gone.

Again, without him.

He wished for death after that; hoped his heart would crumble in his chest. It did not happen.

He lived long enough to bury his mother and mentor next to each other. He lived long enough to meet his father on a pilgrimage to new land. He shared a canister of water with him, listened to his stories of travel and adventure.

He wished he could ask the older man to hold him, tell him that in another life he was his son. Tell him that the love of his life died not but a month ago, and they had never met. He wanted to ask for advice, ask him why he was being forced to relive all this pain, why he was the only one to remember. Instead he asked him to tell him more about his voyages and about the family he was traveling to be with.

Merlin died naturally of old age. He died alone in a home full of books and memories. He left nothing but his story, in case he did not wake again. In case this was the last life.

His eyes drifted closed and he hoped for peace. He hoped for the brown eyes of his Freya, her warmth and love. He hoped, but he knew this was not the end.


	3. Chapter 2

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**Chapter 2**

His second life was easier than the first. The memories of who he was came naturally and easily. He was Charles, son of a British missionary of the 1600s, but he was also Nicholas and foremost, Merlin.

His childhood was a good one. His father, Benjamin was kind and patient. His mother, Elizabeth, was soft-spoken and caring. Merlin wished he could love them more, wished that he did not cry for Hunith at night.

His parents moved them to India when he was six. He remembers crying into his pillow for hours as he was afraid Arthur would not find him so far away. India was to be exotic and exciting, Elizabeth said. It was their duty to bring the word of God to their civilisation, Benjamin said.

Even at such a young age, Merlin knew not to say anything of his past to his parents. How could they possibly understand that after death there was no light and angels playing on the harp? God was not there waiting on the other side, arms open. There was only darkness, and maybe peace, then a new life.

Like rewinding a clock.

Benjamin took position as pastor at a modest church situated a fair distance from any city. The congregation was made up of mostly farmers and traders from villages nearby, Indian and British alike. It seemed that was the only time they felt equal, when kneeling in front of a pier accepting wine drenched bread.

Merlin spent most of his childhood reading in the small attic above the church. He was hungry for knowledge, needing to fill in the blanks between his lives. He had no idea where he went when he died, no idea if that is what he was actually doing…dying. When he looked in the mirror, he saw himself. The same dark hair and blue eyes. Maybe that is what the dragon meant when he said he was immortal, he would never change.

That is where he was the first time he saw Arthur.

He was huddled by a small oval window, trying to make use of the soft afternoon light washing over the pages of his latest book. The weather was unbearably hot, sweat dripped steadily down his brow despite having changed to just an undershirt and a pair of shorts.

He would pause from his reading to look out the window, taking in the spans of dry land that stretched for miles and the cloudless blue sky. There was a spot of colour breaking up the familiar image.

A boy.

A boy in red, standing just below the window. Merlin felt his heart rate pick up. He held his book to his chest, fingers digging into the worn leather of the spine. He watched the boy turn and look up at him.

Then he passed out.

He woke up on top of his parents' bed with Elizabeth holding him against her. It was the first time he had allowed himself to be held like that since he was a babe.

He felt hot, feverish; like his skin was being slowly set alit. He wished for rain, he wished for a storm to wash away the anxious feeling building at his core.

He was not surprised when rain clouds formed just outside. He felt the relief wash over him as rain fell and disappeared on the hot ground. His magic wrapped around him like an old friend.

He was more prepared the second time he saw Arthur.

He knew by then to call him Edward, though the name felt wrong on his lips. He was the son of a well-known tycoon in Britain, sent to India to acquaint himself with one of the family businesses; spice.

Merlin thought it odd to send a child of eight to live in a foreign land with nothing but a formidable nanny and a trunk full of outlandish clothing, but he never spoke of it. He thought that if he ever met Arthur's current father, he would see Uther in his eyes.

The church was used as a school for the British children around the area when not in use for services. Up until then, Merlin had not begun classes as he was a year or two younger than most of the other children. He begged to start attending classes the moment her realised that he could be by Arthur's side again.

The first day of class did not go well. He was late, having spent the early morning helping his father repair benches; the wood having seen better days. He burst through the church doors, sweaty, breathless and with polish smudging his best shirt. The other children snickered, Arthur among them. Merlin tried to not make a spectacle of himself as he went to his desk, but then the teacher turned at looked at him.

_Mother_, he thought, and swiftly burst into tears.

Needless to say, the other children did not take it kindly. They teased him mercilessly, insult dropping like stones in a still pool; rippling through him. He wanted so badly to make a good impression; to start afresh and be the kind of boy Arthur would befriend. But he wanted his mother more. He spent the first few days by her side always. He ignored the sneers and taunts from the other students. He couldn't care less, as long as he could be close to her.

He took to spending break times in class with her. He'd help her set up for the next lesson, wipe down desks and the blackboard. He'd eat his lunch with her and, sometimes when he was especially good, she would read him a bit of whatever novel she was reading at the time.

Days passed by lazily and contently. He could have dealt with the bullying, he really could have. That is, until Arthur started too.

Arthur was relentless. His best friend was a trader's son; Lucian (though to Merlin, Valiant). They would wait for him every day before the beginning of class and make fun of his worn down clothes and unpolished shoes. They would tug his ears and laugh at the expression he made. Threw balls of paper at his head when Hunith wasn't looking or trip him up during the rare breaks he ventured out. He tried to swallow the hurt. Tried to rationalise that Arthur was just a boy and he didn't know Merlin; didn't know all that they had been through.

It was raining the day he snapped. He really should have foreseen it as it hadn't rained since the first time he had seen Arthur, all but a couple months ago. He knew enough about his magic to know that sometimes the weather was but a reflection of how he was feeling.

Heavy grey clouds hung pregnant in the sky as he marched into the little courtyard outside the church. He saw Arthur and Valiant perched on an unfinished wall throwing stones at birds, laughing as they flew away.

Anyone watching would later note the dramatics of the moment. How Merlin's face was set in an expression not unlike one worn to battle. How the birds that had been flying away seemed to pause in the air as if they too could feel the electricity coming off the small boy. They will say that Arthur didn't see it coming. That he barely had enough time to bring his arms up and protect his face before Merlin pulled at one pant-leg and tugged hard enough to send the older boy sprawling on the graveled ground.

They will talk about how Merlin only had time for one punch before the headmaster lifted him off Arthur. But that the punch had enough force to make him clutch his nose and whimper; rolling side to side on the ground.


	4. Chapter 3: Part 1

**Chapter 3: part 1**

**Review, review, review, review!**

Of course Merlin got in trouble. Such behaviour could not be forgiven. He was the son of a man of God and he was expected to behave like it. The hiding was worth it though. He sat on his bed that night, his stomach deprived of dinner and his backside throbbing, but he was smiling. He flexed his hand and didn't mind the mild pain.

"That prat had it coming," he whispered to no one.

The next day, no one teased him. No one said anything about his common background or his sense of dress. No one made any remarks regarding his ears or his hair or anything else. They gave him a wide birch and he preferred it that way.

It couldn't last long of course.

He was sitting on a step leading to the church and eating his lunch when Valiant bounded down the steps and kicked his lunch box over. His lunch went flying, landing around his feet. He watched his apple roll away and stop, only to be pecked at by birds.

He looked up at him, insults sitting at the tip of his tongue. He never got the opportunity to retaliate though because just as Valiant lifted his fist, as if to strike, he lay flat on his back on the ground with Arthur staring down at him.

"Wha-? What did you do that for?" He exclaimed, hands balling into fists at his side.

"We're not doing that anymore." Arthur said simply.

"He hit you! You let him hit you and now you're going to defend him?"

Merlin was just as incredulous. He looked up at the boy, took in his stoic expression, every bit the royal even with his bruised cheek.

"We're not messing with him anymore," he said again softly and slowly as if talking down to a child.

Valiant picked himself off the ground and gave Arthur a death stare before turning and stomping off. He paused a few feet away and looked back.

"Are you coming or not?" He demanded.

"Not," said Arthur taking a seat on the step, "go on without me."

Merlin watched the exchange with apprehension and morbid curiosity. It registered with him that Arthur might have saved him from Valiant only to torment him himself. He watched the other boy from his peripheral view and took him in. It was the first time he had the opportunity to just look at him. Short curly red hair replaced the blond locks he was accustomed to. His face was round and soft with youth with an obscene amount of freckles dusting his cheeks and nose. His eyes were still blue but watered down, like someone had added a dollop of white paint to the cornflower colour that still plagued his dreams.

He watched him fidgeting with the collar of his shirt, pulling at the obnoxious lace frills.

"Don't you ever get hot in all those clothes?" Merlin dared to ask.

"Yes, but it does not matter," he let his gaze linger on what Merlin wore; "some of us take pride in our attire."

Merlin looked down at himself. He wore a pair of pale brown shorts, which were admittedly too small for his long legs, and a white button-up shirt with no sleeves. He looked around at the few children milling around outside and noted that most of the boys were dressed like him. Only Arthur wore such rich colours; burgundy shorts clashing with a lilac shirt with red trimming on the cuffs.

"You look like a desert I'd have for tea," Merlin tried and failed not to laugh at Arthur's expression. His cheeks went an endearing shade of pink that travelled all the way up to the tips of his ears.

"Well…well…at least I don't have the ears of a mule," he exclaimed hotly.

Merlin, feeling brave now, tugged lightly at the pink appendages peeking out of curly red hair.

"Are you sure about that?" He laughed.

Arthur punched Merlin's shoulder but there was no heat in it. Merlin laughed harder and soon so did Arthur. And was just like that, in the heat of India with the sound of children playing, Merlin found his friend again.

It's not that Arthur stopped being a prat overnight. He still took to waiting for Merlin outside the church every morning and making rude comments about his appearance. The difference was that after a few quips, he would fall easy into a monologue about what his evil nanny made him eat for tea or the new toy his father sent him, or any other inconsequential thing running though his mind. It was as if, by hitting him, Merlin had passed some test; shown himself worthy to be Arthur's confidant.

Merlin found himself smiling at nothing in particular, humming old songs from his past and one time, though he would deny it, giggling. He was happy, for the first time in a long time, he was content. He relished his time with Arthur. He loved playing explorer with him, getting lost in fields of sugarcane. He loved spending afternoons in his attic, sucking on ice cubes as he read; feeling Arthur's eyes on him as he sat with his own book on his lap.

Sometimes they would go to Arthur's home, but not often. It seemed like more of a museum than a home. Art and sculptures alternated along the walls and heavy curtains draped the walls behind them so that very little light fed the rooms. The carpets we a deep maroon and the high ceilings painted gold. The first thing he noticed was the staircase winding down from the top floor to the foyer; railings painted gold to match the ceiling. It was not a house but a mansion; big, impressive but incredibly cold.

Arthur's nanny would arrange for Merlin to sleep over and he knew the days his mother agreed were Arthur's favourite, though he would never admit it. One evening they took all the tablecloths from the giant cabinet in the dining room and sheets from all the guestrooms in the house and made a blanket fort in Arthur's room. They light candles and made a little world for themselves where mean nannies were not allowed.

It was in that candlelight that Merlin looked at his best friend and felt a piercing pain rake his body. It was as if his love was a physical thing, too big and daunting for his little heart to take. Arthur lay down next to him and fought sleep, cheeks pink and eyes red. They had talked about his mother; how she died in childbirth and his father had never been the same. How he could count on one hand the number of times he spent more than a week with him; always with someone else there as if he was scared to just be with him. Merlin held him as he sobbed, patted his back awkwardly and tried to think of something comforting to say. In the end he had waited for the tears to dry and then challenged him to a game of chess that he purposely lost.

He prayed hard that night; cast out a wish into the universe. Please, he begged, please let him stay with him in this life.

But the gods are cruel and destiny is unforgiving.

He was ten when Arthur's father sent for him. He was to return to London and attend the same boys' school his father had and his grandfather before that. He stood on Arthur's porch and watched as his trunks were piled onto the waiting carriage. The horseman stood all in black, brushing his mare's mane, and Merlin felt it was appropriate. He wanted to be strong; he'd lost Arthur before, he knew what it felt like.

He would not cry.

Arthur did not bother with any restraint. Tears fell relentless down his face. He stood a step below Merlin; hands balled into fists and face downturned.

"It's going to be horrible. I don't want to go," he whimpered.

His nanny stood by the horseman, tapping a rhythm into the gravel. She looked up at the grey clouds hanging over head and told Arthur to wrap it up.

"I will write you every day. I promise," Arthur whispered, "you are the only friend I've ever had."

He looked at Merlin then, and the hold that Merlin had threatened to shatter. He nodded, knowing he did not have the right words.

"One day you can come to London, or I will come back. This is not goodbye. It's just, see you later." Arthur reached out and folded Merlin's tense body into a hug. Merlin could smell the scent of his soap coming off him; something not unlike cinnamon. He knew he would think about the smell every time he went to sleep until he saw him again.

And he would, he promised, he would see him again.

He stood waving well after the carriage carried Arthur away. Only when he could no longer hear the wheels of the carriage or the horse's gallop, did he sink to the ground and let the sky cry for him.


	5. Chapter 3: Part 2

**Chapter 3: part 2**

It took seven years for Merlin to make his way to London. It took seven years to convince his parents that India was not for him; that he had dreams that stretched beyond the borders the isolated village. He felt horrid leaving them but Elizabeth had given birth to a baby girl two years prior. He looked in his baby sister's eyes, found Elena staring back and knew they would be okay without him.

Saying goodbye to Hunith was another matter. She met him at the docks before the traders' ship left. He held her tight and whispered promises into the soft folds of her dress wishing that he could bottle up her scent and take it with him.

He was surprised, though he shouldn't have been, when the captain of the ship introduced himself as Tom, with his greying hair and tired green eyes. He shook Hunith's hand before he helped Merlin with his bag. Merlin wondered if a part of his mother's soul recognised Balinor behind those tired green eyes. If there was time, if there was no Arthur to find and miles upon miles to sail, he might have introduced his mother to the love of her lives.

Merlin was by far the youngest traveller on the SS Dragoon. Most of the other men had pepper hair and wrinkles framing their eyes. They were strong though, a crew of approximately thirty bringing new treasures and delights to British soil. Merlin was to serve in the kitchen, helping only one chef cater to a rowdy group of sailors.

There were good days and there were bad. Will, known by the others as Shorty because he was so tall he towered over the others, made most days bearable. He slept in the bunk below him and shared whatever he won off the others whenever they played cards. Life seemed doable when he fell asleep to the sound of waves hitting cold metal and Will shuffling cards.

Other days…other days he asked himself why he didn't just do it. Why didn't he tip over into the water and let the waves take him. He always imagined death by water was how he would want to go. As if he might see Freya or feel her filling his lungs.

Those days he would find a corner and curl up in it. He would open the old wooden cigar box he kept Arthur's letters in. He read them so many times the earlier ones where beginning to fade. Arthur kept to his promise for the most part. He wrote him often the first couple of years. He would tell him about his favourite teachers and the most horrid ones. He would talk about his best friend Fredric who could fit a whole box of chocolate melts into his mouth and Lillian, the girl from the sweet shop that had the most perfect smile.

Sometimes Merlin felt he was right there with him, as if he was witnessing Arthur growing up all over again. Arthur sent him a picture of him with his school friends, all of them looking posh in their custom uninforms. Merlin had no doubt that Fredric was really Leon and the rest were the knights of Camelot. It seemed that Arthur had no trouble fitting in at all.

So Merlin did not blame him when the letters became less and less. He really did not. He was a childhood friend, something to outgrow. He knew that Arthur would be taking his place in society. He would be busy courting blushing maidens and learning about the trade that gave his family such an acute reputation. What time did he have for the little boy that clung to him when he was eight?

He tried to be happy. He tried to date girls from the village and open his mind up to the bible, because maybe he could do it, maybe he could live this life. He wanted it so badly but, no matter how many stolen kisses he received or truly joyful moments he experienced in the church, he never felt complete. It seemed that he was always waiting, always looking and always wanting.

He had to be near Arthur, if only to sate the itch beneath his skin.

There was a storm one day. Everyone felt it in the air before it hit. Merlin was standing in the wrong place at the wrong time when the sky broke and a wave came crashing down above him. One moment he was on solid ground and the next he was looking up at the solid grey sky wondering why he felt so warm when he couldn't breathe. For a moment, he thought to just let go. Let go, because his life doesn't matter anyway. Because he is tired of saying goodbye.

Just let go.

Then he felt hands around his waist, hair against his cheek. He opened his eyes and there was his Freya. She was there looking just as she did in Camelot; hair wild and eyes dark.

She smiled and Merlin realised a few things at once; she was breathing under water, he could not see her legs and he _really_ couldn't breathe. He started to panic and she just held on tighter. She kissed him and air, pure and cold filled him. She led him back up to the surface and spared him only one more look before she dived back under. A flick of tail and she was gone again.

The ship found him again and the deckhands pulled him in. He lay awake that night covered in every blanket in their cabin but shivering still. Had he really meant to just let go?

He lay there and everything was so clear. Everything was so simple. It was better to live half a life if living half a life meant he could be with the people that he cared for.

London was beyond anything he imagined. When he would think about it again in another life he would still recall the fear and excitement he felt as he helped unload the ship. He said goodbye to his best friend and his father, knowing he would see them again, and begun to navigate the narrow roads looking for his destiny; his purpose.


	6. Chapter 3: Part 3

**Chapter 3: part 3**

**Author's Note: Okay, I know it's taking a while for the sexy times to come and for that I am sorry. But hold on, dear reader :) ****Thank you for still reading and reviews are super helpful **

It took longer than he thought it would to find Silsbury Estate; home to every Silsbury born in the past hundred odd years. Merlin spent almost every penny he earned on the ship making his way to the quiet residential area reserved for London's elite. If he thought Camelot's castle was intimidating, Silsbury manor was beyond his comprehension. The first thing he saw were the acres of freshly cut grass; green despite the chilly weather. Manicured hedges lined a gravelled road that connected the entrance to the main house with equally manicured gardens.

Roses, everywhere, roses. White and red and pink blossoms spilling over ivy covered walls in abundance. It seemed as if summer itself had been captured behind the estate's daunting iron gates. Merlin used his magic to conceal himself as he made his way to the mansion, craning his head and trying, but failing, to count all the windows looking down at him.

Something told him not to go right up to the door. He wasn't a guest; he couldn't just turn up unannounced. He followed the subtle smell of hay and the distinct whiff of ripe apples until he found himself in front of the stables. The stables were painted a deep burgundy and stood out against the blue-grey backdrop that was the English sky. Merlin let himself in and took in the surroundings. He thought it quite funny that he spent a great deal of his first life trying to get out of going to the stables and yet, here he was feeling at home. There was a black mare that caught his attention right away. Its eyes were clear and as brown as the soft earth stuck to the bottom of his boots. He reached out a hand hesitantly, paused and gave the horse a chance to sniff him out; see if he was worthy of the touch.

After a breath of two, he felt encouraged to keep going. He stroked its silky coat and thought about the last time he was on a horse. It was just before his whole life fell apart. Maybe if he had known he was riding to his own death he would have taken the time to enjoy the trip a bit more.

Or maybe not.

He heard the stable door creak open and held his breath. The horse nudged his hand gently as if telling him to calm down.

"Who's there? Show yourself," a gruff voice asked.

Merlin let the spell fall and stepped away from the horse and into the stream of light from the open door. Merlin looked up at the man holding open the door expecting to find a young stable hand. Instead he took in the riding gear, the whip in hand and the tastefully tailored outfit and it was obvious this was not the help. For one thing, the shirt was a very disconcerting shade of purple.

"I asked you a question boy. Who are you and what business do you have on my land?"

Merlin would later wish that he hadn't reacted the way he did. Arthur would tease him for weeks afterwards about how he looked like such a girl when he clutched his chest, hand over his heart, upon seeing him.

It's just that the juxtaposition between the boy of his memories and the man in front of him was inconceivable. The Edward he knew looked like a boy; all soft edges and big blue eyes. This Edward was; well, not. He had grown into his ears, which Merlin secretly resented, and his face had shaped into the sharp stubbled edges of manhood. He was tall, a lot taller than Merlin was and broad, broader than he had been in his first or second life. Seeing him like that was, well, confusing actually.

It took a moment but he saw the recognition of Arthur's face materialise slowly. The scowl that had been ruining an otherwise pleasing face gradually fell away to the sweet unabashed smile that was usually reserved for hot days lying shirtless in front of Merlin's home scoffing down stolen baked goods.

He took four long strides and wrapped him in his trunk-like arms.

"Charlie, what are you doing here? When did you come to London?"

Merlin tried to answer but really all he could do was hold on to the other man's shoulders and try his damned hardest not to cry. He was not about to be labelled a girl in this lifetime too.

After an awkward amout of time passed, Arthur put him down and gave his back a couple "manly" pats as if to counteract the emotion of the earlier embrace.

Arthur picked up Merlin's sole bag and Merlin was suddenly embarrassed. He looked at his bag, which was really just a patchwork of worn leather threaded together by Hunith, and then at himself. He did not fit.

Arthur did not seem the least bit bothered however. He ushered Merlin through the backdoor that lead to a massive kitchen equipped with utensils the cooks at Camelot would have salivated over. Arthur greeted the few servants that were milling around holding cups of tea and biscuits. They all responding in earnest, asking him about his day and how was the weather and was the ride into the countryside to his satisfaction? They talked animatedly with him and were very polite not to ask about the skinny boy in the odd clothing lagging behind him.

Arthur asked one of the maids to prepare a plate for Merlin and another very well-dressed man to prepare a room.

"I assume you'll be staying with me? It would not be fit for you to board anywhere else, as my guest."

Merlin was not used to all the attention. He was a servant at heart and was not accustomed to pretty maids in pristine uniforms asking him how he liked his eggs. Arthur led him through a multiple corridors and rooms that seemed akin to a maze before leading him into a grand room made of pale blues and creams. Merlin almost didn't want to step on the plush carpeting lest he leave a stain.

Arthur talked animatedly about his journey into town and his busy day at the offices while he shrugged off his long black coat and draped it over an extravagant gold and navy chair. He threw a few bits of wood in the hearth and started a fire.

It seemed like he was trying to fill seven years of events in ten minutes. He talked about school and the friends he made, about how he still worked with some of them. He talked about the business, how it had changed since it fell in his hands after Uther's death one summer ago. He died of natural courses; a wet cough that would not go away.

He talked about his work on a board of directors that hoped to improve relations between English traders and Indian farmers so as to create sustainable growth for both parties.

"Not everyone shares the same views, mind you. We have received quite a bit of opposition and some people have been downright hostile; calling us bloody terrorists. There was a man that had the gale to insinuate I was campaigning for the crown or some other nonsense," he laughed and looked at Merlin for the first time since they had entered the room.

His expression softened and he asked after Merlin's parents, their old teacher and mutual friends from the village.

"Did you keep in touch with anyone?" He asked.

"No, just you," he replied, not looking at him again. "I'm sorry I did not write more often. Life just got in the way, you understand? I was very young when the future of the company fell into my hands. What with the responsibilities, there was not much time for anything else." He looked sheepish as if waiting for reproach but Merlin had none. He had not expected much to begin with. He said as much to Arthur and the other man frowned, expressions unreadable on this new face.

"Charlie, I wish I could have lived up to my promise. I really do. I used to have fantasies about dropping everything and going back. Being with you there is the last time I remember feeling so…free." He paused and looked at him in earnest. "Tell me you'll stay here. We can find work for you; whatever you want. I want you to stay."

And stay he did.

Over the following weeks he got to know his friend all over again. Arthur was the same in all the ways that mattered. He was driven, not allowing for weakness in himself or others. He conducted meetings with suppliers and employees with the same single-mindedness that he conducted council meetings. He was still a prat, that much was true. He enjoyed watching Merlin muck out the stables while he sat on his princely bottom and munched on apples meant for the horses.

He went from mocking Merlin one moment to caring for him the next. He worked on the estate so for all terms and purposes, he was the help. A servant like the rest of them. And even though Arthur treated his servants with the utmost respect, he didn't offer any of them a free room only a couple doors away from his. None of them attended Sunday dinners with him and his best of friends nor did they give him advice on how to woo Marylyn, a rival merchant's daughter that just happened to love roses.

He told Arthur to stop being coy and subtle and just ask her to a ball, or whatever socialites in love did for fun. He figured that Gwen used to want Arthur to take charge back when he was courting her in Camelot, so that probably hadn't changed.

Really life was good. He had his best friend back and days were spent grooming horses and talking strategy in front of the fireplace, lips sticky from honey coated bread that usually accompanied late afternoon tea. Arthur was doing great work, showing what a fair leader he was. He really believed in the equality of man; that no one should be treated as less by another other man.

Merlin would write out his speeches and essays while Arthur strode around the study, licking honey off his fingers. Merlin was good with words and he knew how to phrase Arthur's thoughts into something profound, something moving. It was during one of these sessions, watching the way Arthur would tongue one finger thoroughly before moving onto the next, that Merlin accepted the cold hard truth. His love for Arthur went beyond that of servant and master or friend to friend. It went beyond the brotherly affection he had taken to referring it to. His love for Arthur was a physical need; like breathing or a cool glass of water after a long day in the sun.

He needed him. He needed to hear his laughter and see the crinkles around his eyes when he smiled. His love for Arthur was like sitting too close to the fire. He could feel the pure heat of it taking charge of his skin.

He wanted. He wanted every day.

Merlin thinks that one day, maybe if he's strong enough, he'll write the story of Arthur and him. Not about Gwen or Lancelot or even the knights. Not about good and evil and the balance that magic is between the two. One day he'll write about the man he loved and wanted but never got to have.

It's an ordinary day when it happened. There is nothing particularly special about it. It rains a bit in the morning but the sky cleas quickly after. The mail comes just on time like it usually does and the cook gives Merlin a giant slice of buttered bread and a whack on the back like she always does. The horses are restless but no more than usual.

It's an ordinary day when Arthur is killed again.

He reads about it later, sitting on his patchwork bag and waiting for a ship to take him anywhere. Anywhere because he doesn't care anymore. He reads about how Arthur was attending one of his weekly board meetings when an unidentified man pulled out a loaded pistol and shot him first in the leg, then the chest and finally the head. He reads three shots were needed because Arthur kept fighting, even injured the armed man. He doesn't need to keep reading to know that the other man probably dies shortly after being arrested. He doesn't need to read to know that he probably had an accomplice. Maybe a woman with cold eyes.

He feels sorry for Gwen. Feels sorry for the sixteen year-old girl sitting in her big mansion feeling her heart break and probably not understanding why it hurts so damn much. He feels sorry for the servants out of a job and the horse without a master. He feels sorry for the bill not passed that Merlin was still writing out for Arthur, sorry for the people it could have helped. He feels sorry for everyone, but he can't find it within him to feel sorry for himself. If he lets it, he thinks his grief will kill him. His heart will just stop like before, as if Arthur's heartbeat was linked to his own. He would think he was bonded or enchanted somehow if he didn't know better. It cannot be healthy to feel so empty and raw without someone.

Merlin stands up and looks out to the flat water in front of him. He is going to pick a point on a map and go there. Then when he gets there he'll pick another point. And another until he has seen everything there is to see and it is okay to be tired. Then maybe he'll write the story of Arthur and him and it may not have an ending now, but someday it will. He will wait, like he always does, to feel heat again.


End file.
